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poems are abandoned, never finished

What to do

The dishes were unwashed, for twelve hours
The sink is brimming with sin
What were you doing, rolling?
Like that plastic you roll down, each time
What to do, you’re tired of cooking
And my legs are not flexing.
We wait for the onions to cut themselves,
The broom to start sweeping,
Turn the heat down, the fish is burned
like my crotch—a convenient store,
a fire hose. or are you too spent
to move, after all it’s a woman’s job—
what else is not. along with pouring the self
into tea cups. I wish the smoke from your mouth
blows dust away from the corners
of our walls, the ceiling, that room in my head
where I keep little sanity.